Forgotness: Book 1: 200m
Cat and Fiddle

There was a bang at the back of the trailer as if something soft had bashed against the metal, something soft like a hand. There was more noise; the scrapping of feet followed by a deep thump as a body fell onto the tarpaulin above me. The canvas tightened and dropped down almost to my face. Then a shadowy figure began crawling around, trying to look for a way in. It crawled right over me. I was amazed it couldn’t hear my terrified breathing. Then it moved away back down to the other end of the trailer and a knife sliced through the material and a body dropped down onto the soil. There was silence and then... sniffing?

“Mud?” asked a puzzled voice. Not a particularly scary voice either. But a funny accent. A Wetter! Of course! I had heard the warnings of another break-in.

OK, new experiences and all. Here goes.

“It’s topsoil,” I said into the dark.

This had not been how the day was supposed to have gone.

Well, day, if you start from the night before. I don’t think days start until about five in the evening. If you have a job then definitely nothing happens until after work. Or if you don’t have a job then, well the same; depending on whether you can replace any money. And I hadn’t had any money for a couple of days. Actually right now, I probably did have a bit of money, though not exactly mine as such.

I’d spent the day hitching from Colcar down to Buxton. The Sisters of Mersey were playing at The Cat and Fiddle Inn and I had really wanted to see them.

Of course you couldn’t trust your phone or computer, as any files on them would be read by the cops. That meant the only way to get hold of illegal music was to transfer the songs around on SD cards and stick them into old MP3 players, if you were lucky enough to have one, or you could burn them to blank CDs, though no one had blank CDs anymore, they were even harder to replace. So it was very difficult to hear different music. I’d got my hands on a tiny MP3 player with a cracked screen and a few hundred songs. I’d listened to that thing for the past two years and knew every song by heart. Three of the songs were by the Sisters.

The day I found out that the Sisters of Mersey actually existed was one of the most exciting days of my life.

So, I passed on what songs (and books and comics) I had with my friends, and word had seeped out about The Sisters of Mersey. Then we heard that they were touring round the country and were playing a date down at the The Cat and Fiddle Inn outside Buxton. I had begged, borrowed and stolen what money I could and set off the morning of the gig.

Luckily friends had a boat that ran a route from Huddersfield down to Holmfirth from where I hitched rides in various cars down through Chapel-en-le-Frith until I got to Buxton by the mid-afternoon. Then it was just a matter of spotting the other kids gathering by bus stops and around cars, chumming up to a few and getting a lift out to the Inn. Got there before five. Easy.

Just in time for the start of the day.

So, I chatted with my new friends, drifted around, seeing who was there. Basically, about a hundred folk like me, prone to black and interesting clothing, and about twenty locals intent on drinking their way through the evening and eight or ten couples and families having dinner.

It was a warm summer evening. Warm and dry, such a change from New Huddersfield and the coastal towns like Colcar. But the views were not great: rolling moorland with the only eye catching point being the huge telephone mast round the other side of the pub. Most of us were wandering around the big car park, chatting, swapping stories and drink.

It looked like the band were setting up in the double-doored barn behind the inn. A crowd were gathering, watching the band move gear from the van into the barn.

One of the band members was carrying a stack of drum cases and as one began to slip and fall I ran forwards and grabbed it.

“Well caught,” she said, “can you bring it in? I’m kind of stuck.”

“Yeah,” I said, “course.”

And I was in.

“Can I help?” I asked as I unloaded the drum cases onto the small raised stage at the end of the barn. “I’ve got all your stuff.”

That got me a look of disbelief.

“Three songs anyway. I love them. Travelled all the way from Colcar to see you. Please can I help. Set up, carry, whatever?”

“Sure,” she said, “what’s your name?”

“I’m Jane.”

“Well, I’m Cathryn. Drummer. If you could give us a hand with the van, that’d be great, god knows where the others have buggered off to.”

So I helped Cathryn unload the van, unpack the drums, set them up and then helped hitting drums while she set up the microphones and the PA.

We were there an hour before the rest of the band returned.

“You ready ’Tryn?”

“Aye, no thanks to you wankers. Where’ve you been?”

“Well, you know you take forever with the drums so we were just checking out the bar.”

They began setting up their own gear: bass, guitars, vocals. I helped Cathryn (’just call me ‘Tryn’) again with mics and cables and an hour on from there the band were ready.

So we went to the bar. I was invited to join them.

There was a big cheer when we walked in which felt incredible even though I wasn’t in the band. But just to be seen with them, sitting down at their table (a bunch of kids cleared out for us) was just the best feeling. I kept laughing and stayed close to Tryn.

The bar was full now. The families were gone. The full-time drinkers were herded into a corner and what seemed to be two or three hundred fans swarmed around getting more and more excited.

The band talked about set lists and encores and how late they would dare go on, whether the bar would pay them the full door takings as promised, all sorts. It seemed a dream life.

They bought me another drink (‘it’s part of the rider’), so maybe they weren’t buying, maybe it was free, even better!

The noise in the bar was getting louder and louder, singing was breaking out, often songs covered by the Sisters, sometimes the songs we weren’t supposed to know. But no one cared. We could do what we liked, in public. No one could touch us.

Then the band finished their drinks all at the same time.

“Come on,” said Tryn, “I need you.”

Which made me swell with pride. It turned out that I had to stand behind the mixing desk to make sure no one touched it or spilled drinks on it.

One of the doors to the barn was opened and over the next thirty minutes the crowd paid their way in. During that time each band member, one way or another, came up to me and told me to turn up their volume if they gave me their special sign. Tryn also told me to look after the lights.

“Look Tryn,” I began at one point, “I’m not sure...”

“Buff up Jane,” interrupted Tryn, “you wanted this, you can do it. Do it.”

A CD was playing songs I had never heard before through the PA. Then I got the nod from Tryn. I turned off the lights and faded down the music.

Tryn gave four hits of her drum sticks and with a roar from the crowd the Sisters of Mersey began their set. I got the stage lights on just in time. It was so cool!

It was loud and messy. Occasionally one of the band members would shout into the microphone for me to turn up their whatever: microphone, amp, drums. I did. The band steadily got louder. I was fielding questions from stray punters as they squeezed up to me to ask something about the band: what songs they would play, could they play this or that, where were they playing next, what amplifier did the bass player prefer? I answered as best I could.

Even an hour after the band began people were still coming in and the barn was at bursting point. Now it was a matter of just trying to keep people from falling on to the mixing desk as they leapt up and down. At least there was no room for drinks any more and no one wanted to lose their place in the crowd to fetch more. Bottles and glasses were crushed underfoot.

The Sisters played through their Mersey beat songs, played a few of their own songs and were now deep into illegal territory playing L7, Slits, Breeders, Blondie, Wannadies, that I recognised and more stuff I had never heard of.

Then after two hours and what must have been forty odd songs they finished with The Ramones.

“This is the end for all of us!” Shouted the guitarist, Flora. “Rockaway Beach! 1 2 3 4!”

The band started. Everyone screamed, the band, the audience, me.

Then, as the last chord faded and it was over. I switched on the room lights. The band had disappeared into the crowd, apart from Tryn who was, once again, left to sort out the band’s gear.

Slowly the barn emptied though there were large groups surrounding each band member until finally Flora made it over to me.

“I’ll finish up here if you fancy helping Tryn,” she said, so I climbed on stage and began rolling up cables round my arm and giving it a slight twist with each loop so it would lie flat, just as Tryn had shown me. I was a quick learner.

That took about an hour. By the time I looked up again there was almost no one in the room. Gina, the singer, was still talking to fans, but the rest had packed up their gear and the PA.

Something made me shiver. I turned and saw a man at the back of the room, a Priest. He was staring at me.

He was tall but slight, dressed all in black with only a hint of the white dog collar showing at his neck, and a very pale face, almost dusty looking, with sunken eyes.

They always made me think of vampires, but worse, they made me think vampires were real.

I nudged Tryn.

“What’s he doing here?” I asked.

“Oh, they always have someone following us around. He’s been at every show this tour. Taking notes. Apologizing and then complaining. Don’t worry about it. They can’t touch us.” Explained Tryn.

“Why not?” I asked, packing away the last cables.

“Ah, well, we’ve got protection. Of sorts.”

I gave a quizzical look.

“Gina’s Mum’s a Linux, a sister.”

“Fuck, so she’s minted?”

“No, not really. Her Mum doesn’t have much money but she can get help if we need it. And the Priests know it. So they watch but, I don’t know, they haven’t done anything yet, so who cares?”

Wow. Being able to be so carefree about Priests. I was already experiencing a most bizarre sensation. You read about it in books, but it made no sense until you actually experienced it. I felt I was walking on air. Or maybe it was ten feet tall. Head in the clouds? Maybe it was just happiness. Is that what happiness felt like? I suspected I was feeling happy for the first time in my life.

I stood there smiling, watching the band preparing to move their stuff into the van.

Tryn, Flora, Gina, Karen the second guitarist and Betty the bass player were talking together. Then they walked over to me.

“Look Jane,” began Tryn, “we’ve been talking and we were wondering, if you weren’t doing anything, whether you would like to roadie for us?”

“Roadie?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Gina, “be our slave for a few weeks, carry stuff, help us set up, do the sound with Tryn. We just need a hand and you did a great job today.”

“There’s no money in it,” explained Betty, “food and booze and maybe a bed if you’re lucky. Though we often sleep in the van.”

“I’d love to.” I said quickly, before they could change their mind. Though it was difficult to speak. I felt like crying. My throat hurt.

“Group hug,” said Tryn and we all put our arms round each other.

Which was when I felt the handcuff going round my wrist. I spun round.

“This is an intervention,” said the Priest, smiling, “young lady, I’m saving you.”

He pulled his arm back and I stumbled to his side, almost going on my knees.

“Lord have pity on your souls.” He said to the Sisters.

Tryn stepped forward and punched him right on the nose. I laughed as he went down even though I went down with him. The others rushed forwards but then he pushed them away and waved a flip wallet: it showed his Moors Immunity Badge.

“I have immunity. Any attempts to hinder my actions will invoke the severest response.” His voice was quiet, as if he wanted to shout but didn’t know how.

I pulled and twisted trying to get my hand out of the cuffs.

“Tryn!” But I didn’t know what else to say.

“Please be quiet. I’m saving you.” He said in a kind voice.

I could see that Gina trying to make a phone call.

“We’ll get you back Jane!” Shouted Tryn, and then he was dragging me out of the barn towards a dark expensive-looking car. The band followed us out. There was a crowd of fans around us whispering and staring.

The priest opened the rear door pulled out a second pair of handcuffs and cuffed my hand to the inner door handle. Then he unlocked the first cuffs and slammed the door.

He turned round and looked at the crowd.

“Grow up,” he said to the crowd, “calm down, smile.”

No one moved. He got into the car.

“You can’t do this. Let me out. Now!” I screamed.

He turned to me. “You’re coming with me to the Moors.”

I screamed quite a lot. The Priest put on some hellish music I’d heard used in horror films. It was very loud. I stopped screaming and stopped pulling at the cuffs. My wrist was sore, and so was my throat.

We drove south.

Then we stopped briefly in Buxton, in a dark corner of an all-night store car park. During the minutes the Priest was inside the shop I struggled with the handcuffs and shouted for help. No one came.

The Priest got back in the car and put a carrier bag on the front seat.

“Cold supper tonight,” he explained with a smile, “we’ll share.”

He started the car and continued south.

He was heading for a port somewhere. I wasn’t sure of the names down here. Was is Tissingdon? Something like that. I had my feet up across the back seat. My arm, still handcuffed to the door handle, was totally dead. I hoped the Priest thought I was asleep.

Some time later he made a phonecall.

“I’ve got someone... Female.. teenager. No, I doubt it, maybe. If she makes it. No, No, Yes. Berth three. Thirty minutes, so, around two A.M. I would expect. Thank you.”

My eyes were shut, well, very nearly shut. I could see lights of a town ahead. We headed downhill, probably to the sea as it was getting misty outside. There was a fair bit of traffic coming the other way, up the hill. Lights flashed by.

The car slowed and I could see streetlights. The car turned this way and that. Then we got to a gate and the Priest rolled down his window and said: “Berth Three.”

We went through and it all got a bit darker and quieter though there were occasional very loud noises, ship noises.

We stopped. The Priest got out and I heard the car lock itself with a beep. I wasnot sure how long he was away for: fifteen or twenty minutes. He came back and unlocked the boot and took something heavy out, presumably a suitcase or something. Then he opened my door and my arm was stretched out above my head. He bent down and unlocked the cuff from the door. My arm fell down to the tarmac but I lay still.

The Priest stood there for a seconds then he came closer and leant into the car to shake me awake.

“Wake up.” He said.

I held the lose handcuff in my fist and brought it up as hard as I could between his legs. With a grunt he lost his balance and tipped over me and rolled into the foot well of the back seat. With his back on the floor he tried to reach up and grab me. I batted his arms away and punched him in the face with the handcuff ring. There was a spray of blood as his nose burst. I punched him again but his waving arms caught my fist and I hit his Adam’s Apple. He began to cough and splutter. I punched again and broke a tooth. Then I punched him a few more times in the groin and then a few more in the face. Finally he stopped trying to grab me.

I put my hand inside his jacket and pulled out his wallet and phone and... a gun! I got the car keys and I grabbed the bag of food off the front seat.

He was still coughing and breathing raggedly.

“I’ll replace you. I’ll save you. Don’t worry.” He whispered.

He watched me while I locked the car. I threw the keys into the water. Then I ran for the shadows.

I got to a high fence and ran back and forwards along it like a frightened rabbit until I found a gap and squeezed through into the back of a huge lorry park. I saw a big lorry with its lights on and engine running, I hoped it was about to leave. I climbed up the back of the trailer and rolled under the cover. It was filled with soil. I crawled over the mound of earth until I was right at the front, behind the cab, with my back to the trailer wall.

I felt the lorry move and had to put my hand over my mouth to stop myself squealing. I started to shake. And shook and shook.

I watched the lights slipping away through the gaps of the tarpaulin. When there were no more lights I guessed we were safely were out of town. I stopped shaking.

That was when I heard a bang at the back of the trailer.